


Little One

by baranduin



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003), Lord of the Rings - Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-13
Updated: 2010-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-06 06:17:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baranduin/pseuds/baranduin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the Ring goes south, Frodo and Boromir's relationship evolves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little One

He calls us "little ones." Sometimes I think he is being affectionate, but more often I think it is his way of expressing a world of contempt for us.

According to him, we shouldn't be here at all, and I definitely shouldn't be the one carrying the Ring. Doubtless it should be him--or if not him, another man tall and strong who is able to control it. He doesn't realize it would control him and turn any good intention to evil sooner or later--sooner in his case since he made no bones at Rivendell about using it instead of destroying it. It would eat away at him, whispering to him to put it on and claim it for his own. I hear these whispers waking and sleeping--hear them now as I run my fingers lightly around its smooth circle.

We are in Hollin. Gandalf said we would have a day's rest, but that was before the crebain flew overhead, scouting for us. So now we have to move again tonight.

It's my turn to keep watch. I keep my eyes turned to the southern sky, dreading the return of the crows. Birds as spies--Gandalf had told me of such things back in the Shire, but I had not really believed it until this morning when they flew straight toward us, wheeling and searching us out before turning back southward to make their report.

There is no sound of bird or beast except for Bill, who swishes his tail sleepily. Legolas said that elves used to live here, but it is such a desolate place that I can barely believe it. Only the holly trees give the land any color with their glossy green leaves and red berries, but they are twisted and bent over like old men who can no longer stand straight.

"Watching all alone, little one?"

I start at his approach.

"May I join you? I've slept enough and would welcome some company."

My back stiffens and the hairs stand up on the back of my neck as he sits down close beside me. I steal a look sideways at him. His face is smiling and kind as it usually is. Looking southward as I had just done, he squints at the light.

"I came this way when I was searching for Imladris. It was a long journey on my own and on foot. I'm glad of company for the return. This is a bare land. I like it not."

"Legolas said that elves once lived here."

"Perhaps, I know nothing of such things."

We sit in silence, listening to Bill's tail and the sound of the others sleeping. He lies back and leans on his elbows. My shoulder blades twitch as I feel his eyes on me.

"Why do you fear me? Have I done anything to deserve that? Tell me so I can undo it."

"I don't know what you mean, although it is true that I'm not used to being around men. Aragorn is really the only one I've ever come to know--and him only for a few months. You are just a little strange to me."

"Is that it? I thought it more than that."

"No, no more. Tell me about Minas Tirith."

"Ah, Frodo, you would love it there. It is a city of white stone built around Mt. Mindolluin's sides. Seven levels wind about it with gates set at different points in a half circle. When you see it from the Field of Pellenor, it looks like a great ship sailing upon the mountain."

With the point of a stick, he draws the circles of the city, marking the gates for me. I bend forward to look at it more closely and feel his breath on the back of my neck.

"In the topmost circle is the Tower of Ecthelion--my father's court. I long for it--to hear the trumpets call me home as the morning light shines upon the Tower."

"I would like to see it some day."

"Then you must come with me."

"You know I cannot. That is not my path."

"Yet you will be tired with a long journey--more tired than the rest of us, I think, considering the burden you carry. You will need your rest before you go on to the end. I am not being unreasonable."

"Perhaps not, but still, that is not my way even though I would like to see your white city."

"Very well. Get some sleep, little one. I will keep watch."

I walk to my blanket, bristling at the term. I will tell him one of these times.

* * *

I slip and fall, tumbling head over heel down Caradhras' snowy slope. Coming to rest at Aragorn's feet, he pulls me up and brushes me off.

I can't breathe. It's gone. I search frantically inside my shirt. It's gone. My heart breaks at the sudden emptiness inside me.

Looking back up the slope, joy fills me when I see something glinting at me in the sun. A shadow falls over it as Boromir bends down and picks it up by its chain. Holding it high, he looks at it wonderingly.

"Such a little thing to cause so much trouble."

"Give it to me."

He walks slowly down the slope and holds it out to me.

"As you wish. I care not."

I snatch it from him, fingers closing over the Ring jealously before I slip the chain back over my neck where it belongs.

* * *

Moria. The Black Pit. Khazad-Dum. No matter the name, its darkness frightens me. When we saw the skeletons of the long-dead dwarves with orc arrows sticking out of their bones, I thought we might turn back and try the Gap of Rohan. I can still hear the howl Gimli sent up when he knew that his kin were dead.

We have no choice now but to go on to the other side. The Watcher has seen to that. One minute I was standing just inside the great doors--then I was flat on my back being dragged toward the dank pool by my ankle. It gripped me hard and flung me into the air. I can barely remember the next few minutes. It was all a jumble of being tossed about as though I were a doll until someone finally cut off the tentacle holding my ankle and I tumbled into Boromir's arms.

All thoughts of retreating from Moria vanished, and we ran back inside and watched horrified while it tore down the doors, blocking that way forever. As darkness closed in, we heard it uprooting the holly trees that had stood guard on either side of the doors for uncounted years. Gone in a matter of moments were the doors that had been so cunningly made by the dwarves--Celebrimbor's writing on them shattered. As Gandalf lit his staff, a block of stone slid to my feet and I saw Durin's Star, its fine lines of ithildin fading into the gray rock.

We've been on the move for two days though it's hard to tell the passing of time in the dark with only the faint light of Gandalf's staff to guide us. I was more shaken by what happened at the doors than I let the others see. My muscles ache so much that it makes it hard for me to keep up with them. It's so dark that they don't notice, not even Sam. They don't realize that I thought my spine would snap every time that thing threw me up in the air or pulled me back toward its gaping maw. Each time Gandalf allows us a brief stop, I lie down on the hard ground to get off my feet and quiet the pains that shoot down my legs with every step.

None of them notice except Boromir. Standing in the pool, he had caught me as I fell and held me fast in his arms. Running into the mines, we hadn't stopped until we reached a stairway. By that time, I had half-fainted in Boromir's arms from the pain that reached hot fingers from my spine through every limb. I tried hard not to moan as he sat down on the stair with me. He rubbed my arms while I shivered uncontrollably in the cold dark. Only the sip of miruvor that Gandalf doled out to all of us stopped my shaking as I felt a little warmth creep back into my body.

"Are you all right, Frodo? Can you walk?"

"Yes, I'm fine now. Thank you."

He keeps close to me now. I don't say anything about the pain to anyone, but he knows I'm hurting. Each time we stop and I lie down to rest, he comes to me and covers me with his cloak. The fur lining is soft and warm against my face. His scent is in it, a musky aroma that soothes me. He sits quietly beside me in the dark and rubs the small of my back with careful fingers that search out the hard knot that will not go away. I had not thought he could have a gentle touch. He is kind after all.

* * *

Gandalf is dead.

It is my fault.

* * *

What is wrong with me? I cannot cry for him. He was as a father to me, but all I could spare was one tear that slipped down my face as we stood outside the gates of Moria. After that, nothing.

I walk alone in the sunshine of Lorien. Its warmth doesn't reach the ice that encases me and leaves me dreading to be around the others. Their tears come naturally and freely. Though they don't accuse me, in their hearts they must know it was my fault. I was the one who said we would go through Moria.

I hear footsteps behind me and know who it is.

"It's not good for you to be alone always, even here."

"I know, but I'm not good company for anyone."

We sit at the foot of a spreading mallorn, its branches of fallow gold high above us. He puts his cloak around me.

"Does your back still hurt?"

"Not so much any more. How did you know?"

"How could I not know after carrying you into the mines?"

"Why didn't you say anything to the others?"

"I didn't think you wanted anyone to know. I was going to tell Gandalf, but you ..."

"Thank you. It would have done no good to say anything. We had to keep going. It would have just upset the others to know."

I stretch out on the ground, warm at last under his cloak. His hand steals under it and strokes my back. My muscles unknot from the slow pressure of his fingers against me.

"You would have jumped in after him if I hadn't stopped you."

"Yes."

"It was not your fault."

"It was my decision to go through the mines."

"Yes, and none of us would have been there if not for that thing you carry. Is that your fault as well?"

"No ... I don't know."

"I know. It was not your fault. Let it go."

He lies down next to me and pulls me to him, pillowing my head on his chest.

The tears come finally. Wrenched from a place so deep inside me that I never knew it existed, they pour down my face. Oh, it hurts. I sound like an animal caught in a trap that chews off its own leg to escape.

"Gandalf! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Forgive me."

"Sshh."

He rocks me in his arms until my sobs quiet and I lie lightheaded. I doze barely under the surface, drifting under his hands moving over my body in long strokes that start at my bottom and work their way up to my neck and then back again.

Half awake, I look up at him. His fingers trace the tracks my tears have made and wipe away the wetness. He pushes his thumb against my lower lip and drags back and forth before slipping it into my mouth. Trembling, I close my mouth around it and suck, tasting salt. My head is spinning again, this time from the feel of his length against me. My penis swells against my breeches with an aching fullness. I don't understand--don't want it.

His hands are at my breeches, unbuttoning and pulling them down. My penis jerks when he takes it in his hand and runs his thumb across its tip slick with fluid.

"Not so fast, little one. Let the pleasure last a while."

I whisper, "Don't call me that. I don't like it."

I try to push away from him, but his hand around my buttocks keeps me pressed close. Gritting my teeth against the waves of sensation that roll from my belly, I try to will away my hardness. Pulling my shirt down over my shoulders, he rubs his face against me, beard scratching my nipples. The ache in my groin grows again with each slow rub. Taking a nipple into his mouth, he licks in soft circles. Heat spreading down into the heart of my ache makes me groan.

"Ah, but you like that, don't you?"

I wrench myself away and turn over to get away from the warm tongue that is making me lose control. He turns with me and wraps his arms around my waist. I can't escape--don't want to escape any more. Sighing, I lean into him and arch against the hand that trails down my chest. His mouth closes on my neck, teeth fastening in my flesh and catching the chain. I cry out when his hand cups my testicles and squeezes lightly. I can't breathe, just lie there waiting for his hand to move on me. He draws it up around me in a light circle. I breathe again in shallow gasps as he strokes me. Everything fades away until all I know is his hand on me and his teeth in my neck that sends shocks straight through me.

"Harder ... harder."

His fist closes tightly around me, and I pump hard against it. I'm falling apart--can't bear it any more and feel the tears well up again as I come into his palm in long, painful spurts. I hide my face against his neck so he won't see me cry. He runs the chain around my neck lightly between his fingers as we lie quietly and I try to stop the tears that make me shudder against him.

"I'm sorry. Now that I've started, I can't stop."

"You need to cry just as you needed the other thing as well."

"I know. It's just so hard."

"Sleep now, little one."

My limbs are so heavy that I couldn't move if all the orcs of Moria were after me. I yawn as sleep claims me and murmur, "Don't call me that."

He chuckles. "And what should I call a grown person who barely reaches my chest?"

"Not that."

"Very well, then. Sleep, Frodo."

"That's better."

* * *

I feel his eyes on me during the day as we drift down Anduin in our light Lorien boats. He waits for night to fall and the camp to quiet. Coming to me as I keep watch, he lifts me up and carries me outside the circle of our sleeping companions to where the trees hide us from sight and sound.

Under the warm cover of his cloak, I wrap my legs around his back as he rolls on top of me, our clothes quickly pulled aside.

"Am I too heavy for you?"

"No, I like it."

I do like it. His weight should be too much for me, but it isn't. Once, his size and strength frightened me, but now I revel in it each time he lowers himself on to me. He takes care not to crush me, but I wouldn't care if he did.

Our hearts beating in a quickening pace, we slide against each other. The tip of his erection touches my opening lightly, but he doesn't try to enter me though I want him to do it. The first time I felt him it frightened me and I shrank from his touch. It was so long and thick that I thought it would tear me apart if he came inside me, and so he never tries. Now it's all I think about every day as we float down the river with nothing to do but watch and think. He would be careful and not push too hard, would stop if it hurt too much. Drifting down the river, he fills me over and over again. I have to stifle the moans that threaten to escape from my throat and give me away.

Taking him in my hands, I rub the slippery tip against me and push.

"No, I'm too big for you."

"Then be careful."

I clutch him in my hands as he rubs slowly back and forth against my opening, all feeling centered in that exquisite spot. Pulling the hard flesh to me, tight band of muscle flexes to accept him. He pulls away and I close again, squirming against him in my frustration.

"Stay still."

He spreads my thighs wide, pinning me beneath him so that I can't move. I am sick with the need to feel him inside me, but he doesn't do it, just continues the slow rub against my opening. Quickening his rhythm, he pushes harder now, tip teasing in and out. His body stiffens, and he groans as his thick seed covers me.

I cry out when he moves away from me.

"Boromir! Don't … I thought … why didn't you …"

"Sshh. I'm not done with you yet."

I quiver under his hands moving over me in long strokes. His fingers take the place of his penis at my wet opening. I smile as he pushes into me effortlessly, fingers circling and stretching me open. Kneeling between my thighs, he strokes himself hard again. I move against his fingers in rhythm with him, drawing him deeper. I want more, something thicker that will fill me completely.

He is high above me, swollen head pressing against me. This time it's different. He doesn't stop. I scream when he pushes more than the tip into me.

"Oh, stop … too much … you'll split me in two …"

He slips out of me and starts to draw away. I wrap my arms and legs around his back and dig my heels into his buttocks. The tearing pain inside me quiets to a warm throbbing as we grind against each other, his hands clutching my bottom. His hardness rubs against my opening but doesn't go further.

Whimpering, I gasp, "Put your fingers in me."

We move in unison, crying out with each thrust. His fingers circle slowly inside me, making me rise up against him to come closer. I close my mouth on his nipple and suck hard, holding on as I shove. Surely my penis will break apart, it can't swell any more. I can't bear it—don't let it end. It's over too soon as I spasm over and over, tight ring squeezing his fingers. In a fog, I feel him pump fast and hard against me until he bathes my opening once again with his seed. He collapses on me, his full weight on me for the first time.

We lie still for long minutes under the night sky, our racing hearts slowing and our breathing quieting. The scent of our mingled sweat surrounds me, pushing me toward sleep though I know I need to get up and go back to the camp.

Sleep pulls at me in a long wave that flows in time with his hands sliding so softly up my back to rest at my neck. He takes the silver chain between his fingers and caresses each link. The Ring rests lightly against my chest and quivers as he slides the chain around my neck. Warmth spreads from its perfect round circle pressing into my skin until my entire body is aglow with its heat.

His voice sounds in my ear in a tender tone that he saves for when we are alone. He doesn't use this voice with the others, only shows it to me.

"I'm sorry—didn't mean to hurt you."

"It's all right. I wanted it."

"Yes, but I knew better all along. I'll not try that again."

"Don't say that. I want to try again."

"What? Now?"

I laugh nervously. "Well … maybe not tonight. I am a little sore. But I want to keep trying. Eventually it should …"

He holds me tightly to him for a minute and pulls my face up for a quick kiss.

"As you like, little one. Oh. Sorry."

We look at each other for a minute before bursting into laughter. He settles my head on his chest and holds me close with an arm around my shoulder and warm hand clasping my bottom.

"Are you warm enough?"

"Mmmm hmmm."

"Have you thought more about what I asked you last night?"

"What more is there to say? I know what I must do."

I kiss him suddenly on the mouth, hoping to distract him from yet another fruitless argument, but he sees through my ruse.

"Frodo … please. Won't you at least hear me out? Coming to Minas Tirith first doesn't mean abandoning your duty. You need to regain your strength and plan your route into Mordor. Do that from the safety of my city."

"I dare not. Time is growing short, I can feel it. Do you know how long we were in Lorien? A month, Boromir, we spent a month resting while Sauron's malice spread. I don't need more rest—what do you think I get sitting in that boat every day?"

"But you do need to plan."

"What guidance could I get from Minas Tirith? Are there any who have walked on Gorgoroth? Is there someone who can tell me the password that opens the Black Gate? Can you do that for me?"

I shake in his arms, whether from the cold night air, my anger, or a mixture of both I don't know.

He sighs heavily and strokes my hair, fingers lightly massaging my scalp. Slowly I relax against his chest and press my face to the hollow of his throat, savoring the taste of his skin.

His voice is soft and sad. "You know I cannot." His hand slides down my head to rest on the back of my neck, fingers restlessly playing with the chain again.

"Would that I could. What do you think I do all day as we float down Anduin? I wrack my brain for any scrap of knowledge I might have heard. Perhaps my brother could give good advice. He guards Ithilien with his men."

"Ithilien? Where is that?"

"Between Gondor and Mordor. At the least, he will have the latest news of what passes there. I would consult him before you get too close to Mordor."

"No. I'm sorry, I know you mean well, but I'm frightened of delaying too long. Coming to Minas Tirith would cost me too many days."

"And I'm frightened if you don't."

"You? What ever frightens you?"

"You're joking, aren't you? Fear fills me every time I think of you coming closer to Mordor—with me or without me. I see how you suffer. It weighs you down more every day. Won't you let me help you?"

"I want to, but …"

He groans in frustration. "I thought I knew what stubbornness was. The men of Gondor have had to be to survive so close to the Black Land in these evil times. But our resolve is as nothing when I look at you. Are all hobbits this irritating?"

Smiling, I kiss his throat but keep silent.

"Come, Frodo, it's past time to go back. We will speak more tomorrow."

"Stubborn man." I nip his neck and get up.

* * *

The day is cold and dreary. A fine rain like needles strikes my face as I look over my shoulder and search for the other boats. I see them dimly in the mist that has settled over the river. Every now and then one boat draws closer, Boromir's face seeking mine. His face is grim beneath his hood, eyes burning into me.

I dread and long for night to come again—dread the hoarse voice that tries to persuade me to do as he wishes yet long for his touch.

It would be so easy to yield and let him guide me. Perhaps it was Gandalf's intention to go to Minas Tirith first, but he never spoke of it to me. He never shared his thoughts on what we would do when we came close to Mordor nor how we would enter it. It does make sense to go to Boromir's city, I can't deny that. We've been wandering so many weeks without news. His brother might have good words of advice for me. I need it, am adrift without Gandalf's guidance.

Something frightens me about going to Minas Tirith. I don't know if it's just that going there would mean avoiding my duty or if it's something more. Too many men would see me and wonder. Surely many there know of Boromir's dream and would realize that I was the one spoken of in the verse.

I lied to him when I said I had recovered my strength in Lorien. It's not true. Weakness spreads in me each day we drift down Anduin. The chain scratches my neck and makes me long to take it off and put it in my pocket though I know I won't—know I would just keep taking it out to feel it in my hand. The Ring tugs at me impatiently and grows heavier with each mile. It knows it draws close to home.

He never touches it when we lie together though he can't keep his hands from the chain and turns it in his fingers incessantly. The chain doesn't chafe when he does that. It turns soft and silken in his hands. The scrape against my sore skin becomes a caress that calms me and makes me want to rest safe in his arms forever.

"Frodo."

I huddle low in the boat and remember what we did the night before. All my dread of being alone with him again fades away and is replaced by a sharp hunger that curls my toes against the boat's smooth wood.

"Frodo."

We'll try again tonight. All he needs to do is spend more time stretching me with his fingers. If he does that, I'll be more relaxed, not so tense. I want to feel him shake in my arms when his seed fills me.

"Frodo!"

I jump. Aragorn's hand shakes my shoulder. Turning around, I peer up at him. He looks at me, brow wrinkled in concern.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, fine."

"Are you sure? You look feverish. Perhaps you're coming down with a cold. This weather is foul."

He touches my forehead lightly and smiles. "No fever. Where were you? You seemed in a trance. I had to grab you to get your attention."

My face grows hot.

He laughs and says, "Ah. That."

I look down in confusion and ask primly, "What did you want to talk to me about?"

"Well, among other things, what's going on between you and Boromir?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Frodo, please. You're a terrible liar."

I look up at him hesitantly, unsure of what I will see in his face. He smiles at me the way he always does, and my tension ebbs away.

"I thought we'd been so careful. He always takes me far enough away from the camp so we can't be seen."

Aragorn bursts into laughter so loud that Sam sits up and blinks at us, woken from his sleep.

"Mr. Frodo?"

"It's all right. Go back to sleep."

He stares at us blearily for a minute before flopping back in the prow of the boat. After a minute, soft snores reach our ears.

Aragorn still shakes with suppressed laughter. "Did you really think no one would notice all those nighttime excursions? You know what a light sleeper I am."

I sputter, "Well, yes, I …" A new thought strikes me. "Does anyone else know?"

"I think not--maybe Legolas. Don't worry. We won't tell the others, not that you need be embarrassed."

"I know. It's just very new to me. I guess I wanted to keep it to myself."

"And so you shall. Just … be careful, Frodo. He's a strong-willed man used to being in control. Our journey and task have been difficult for him to accept. I hope he's not been trying to persuade you to do anything against your will."

I bristle at the implication. "You think I'm not capable on my own."

"I didn't say that."

"Yes, but you thought it, didn't you?"

I glare at him, breathing jerkily. After a minute, he drops his gaze and shakes his head.

"I swore to protect you in Bree. Don't ask me not to worry about you."

"Right. Must protect the Ringbearer, the foolish little one, lest he do something stupid."

Aragorn raises his hand, palm held outward.

"No. I need to protect Frodo, my brave friend who bears the burden for all of us."

My anger washes away and leaves me limp. "I don't know what to do," I say faintly.

He touches my face gently. "Tell me."

"Boromir thinks I should go to Minas Tirith first. It makes sense, except for the warning in my heart."

"What warning is that?"

"The warning against delay. It would cost me so many days."

"Is that all?"

"Yes … I don't know. Perhaps I'm just nervous to go where there will be so many men. Bree was bad enough."

"Are we all that alarming?"

"No, you're not. Boromir's not. He frightened me at first, but not now, though he is very stubborn."

Aragorn chuckles softly. "Well, it takes one to know one. I can understand you not wanting to show yourself to too many people. After all, our strength is in our secrecy."

"So I'm right in thinking I shouldn't go there?"

"I don't know. It's possible Gandalf intended to go there all along. I know it was in his mind. I'm not helping, am I?"

"It's my choice, isn't it?"

"Yes, but whatever you decide, you'll not go alone."

"How much longer do I have?"

"Two days, three maybe, before we reach Rauros."

I nod and rub my aching shoulder.

"Lie down and get a little sleep." He grins at me, eyebrows raised. "After all, you're not likely to get much tonight."

I blush as I lie down in the bottom of the boat. "Thank you, Aragorn. You do comfort me. I'm sorry I snapped at you."

He strokes my head before taking up his paddle, even strokes through the water speeding us closer to Rauros.

* * *

I sprawl across his chest with my legs spread wide and eyes closed. His mouth moves against my throat, tongue bathing my sore skin. The rawness fades away and leaves a warm tingling in its place. I stretch my neck back and forth to open myself to his searching mouth. He kneads his fingers into the tight muscles of the back of my neck.

"Oh, that feels good. The Ring pulls at me so. My neck aches from the weight of it."

"Take it off for a while."

I hesitate, my stomach knotting at the thought of being parted from it.

He whispers, "Never mind."

I lay my head on his shoulder and skim my lips across the hollow of his throat. His skin is so soft there. It surprised me at first that he had such soft skin though it's not that way everywhere. He is a contrast in hardness and softness. Tonight I make a game of finding the soft, smooth parts of his long body. It pleases us both as I roam his length with my hands and lips and exclaim with each new discovery—the inside of his elbow, the back of his knee, that place on his belly just before the nest of hair starts, the velvet head of that part of him I long to feel buried inside me.

At first he lies still for me, fingertips grazing me lightly while I range up and down. I smile when he begins to squirm, just a little at first, fingers starting to grip. With a hoarse cry, he pulls me hard to his chest and closes his mouth on mine. Ah, I had forgotten the softest part of all—his lips. We lose ourselves for long minutes in our kiss. His tongue strokes my tongue, runs across my teeth, pushes against the soft sides of my mouth. Rubbing myself against his chest and whimpering, I suck the tongue that fills my mouth as completely as I want his …

He rolls us over and slides down, spreading my legs. I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for his fingers to come into me. Instead, something soft and warm touches me lightly there. Propping myself on my elbows, I see his head buried between my legs. He can't want to do that, can't want to taste me there. I push his head away. He looks up, eyes glazed, and shoves me back down.

I blink and look away. He cups my chin and turns my face toward him. I close my eyes.

"Look at me."

He's smiling.

"Do you know how you taste to me?"

I shake my head.

"Sweet, so sweet."

I sigh and lower my head to the ground. He pushes my legs up and strokes the insides of my thighs, his fingernails lightly scratching my skin. A trembling starts in my belly and spreads to my legs as he lowers his head to me again and fastens his mouth on me. This time I don't push him away. I raise my hips and move in circles with his tongue. When he nibbles the tender skin of my thighs, I push his head back there again. I gasp as he thrusts his tongue into me, the soft pressure against my tissues making me moan over and over in an unending cry.

Fingers take the place of his tongue, careful fingers that pull and stretch. He keeps them still while he kisses my belly and tastes the fluid that drips from me. I can't keep from squirming against his fingers but don't want the pleasure to end that way.

"Boromir! Stop … come inside me."

He lies between my thighs, hand holding his shaft to my opening. I breathe faster as he pushes a little and then withdraws, does that again and again. It doesn't hurt, makes me frantic to have more. He thrusts hard and is in me. I shudder uncontrollably as pain explodes inside me but don't stop him. Tears start in my eyes as I squeeze them shut and hold myself still, waiting for the next tearing thrust. He pulls away.

I look at him. He strokes my face and says softly, "Do you think I'd feel pleasure with hurting you like that?"

"It's all right, it will pass."

"Sshh." He kisses my tears away and turns us over. "How foolish we are. That's not the only way."

"What do you mean?"

"Come inside me. You'll not hurt me."

I lie still for a moment against his chest. Smiling, I squirm down his body and kneel between his legs. He lies open to me, knees raised. Sitting back on my heels, I gloat at the sight of my lover's body spread before me—powerful chest tapering to narrow hips, thick shaft twitching lightly against his belly. I run my fingers over his tip and coat them with the slick fluid. Touching my tongue to my fingertip, I taste salt. It's his turn to squirm when I press my fingers against his opening and push inside. Warm, he's so warm and tight. I didn't know it would be so warm. He takes me in his hand and rubs me against him, cries out when I push into him. I forget everything but the hot clasp of his flesh around me, try to go slowly but can't. Thrusting again and again into him, I barely hear his voice imploring me.

"Touch me … please …"

I take him in both hands. My hands are small, but they are big enough to encircle him. Drawing the fluid flowing from the tip down over him, I stroke in time with my quickening thrusts. He holds my bottom and pulls me deeper into him. I lose my rhythm as the feel of him overwhelms me and grind against him, crying out when I pour into him. Dropping down over him, he shoves hard against my hands, white seed spurting against my face and mouth. I rub my face against him, licking the sweet, salty fluid that is all over us, greedy to drink every drop.

Slowly, we collapse against the ground. He pulls me up to his chest, arms holding me close. I lie there limply, every nerve in my body tingling. He wipes my face with his hand and laughs softly.

"What a mess I made on you."

I lean up and kiss him, rubbing my wet face against his beard. "I like your mess. It tastes good."

We lie together in silence, not moving. We should get up and go back to camp, but I don't want to do it. I want to sleep in his arms all night. He doesn't speak though I know what is in his mind.

I say, "Aragorn told me that we're only a day or two from Rauros."

He tightens his arms around me but says nothing.

"I've been thinking. If I did come to Minas Tirith first, what …"

He pulls apart from me and looks at me, eyes glinting in the starlight and mouth curved in a surprised smile.

"You'll not be sorry, I promise. You'll see, it's the right thing to do."

"I'm not saying I've decided, just that I'm thinking about it. I need to know more about how it could help me. It's still not clear to me that it would, especially if too many people see me."

His hands tremble at my neck and take the chain lightly between his fingers. I tilt my head to make it easier for him to touch.

"You wouldn't need to go in to the city. I agree with you, we must keep you hidden. We just need to go close enough to find out what has been happening so we can decide what to do."

I shift slightly in his arms. The Ring slides against his hand. His fingers caress it lightly before jerking back.

"I need to consult my father. He'll know what to do, can tell us how best to use it."

I stiffen in his arms and hold my breath.

He laughs shortly. "I mean, he'll help us make sense of what we find out from my brother. You'll not regret this, Frodo."

I force myself to relax in his arms. His voice continues murmuring in my ear, telling me of a private place we can go where I won't be seen. I barely hear the soft voice with its hushed, eager tones. His hand clutches the chain that scrapes my skin with renewed purpose.

I know now what I must do.

* * *

I can't stop swallowing. My hands move restlessly, pulling my cloak tight around me only to push it aside when the heat of the camp fire makes me break into a sweat. Mouth parched, my throat cuts off my breath. I gulp convulsively, cold air rushing into my lungs, and tear off my cloak and jacket. My neck itches as though midges are crawling on it. I pull my shirt open and rub hard against my raw skin.

"Mr. Frodo, what's wrong?"

Sam kneels next to me, forehead knotted with worry. I reach to close my shirt, but he stops me and spreads it open.

He touches my neck gently. "Oh, that's bad. How long has it been doing that to you?"

"It's not so bad, it just itches so much tonight."

"You should have told me."

I don't say anything, just shake my head and look down.

Sam calls softly across the clearing where we are camped. "Strider! Come look at this."

Boromir and Aragorn look up from where they've been eating their dinner and talking softly. Aragorn comes quickly, long strides making short work of the distance. I shake my head at Boromir when he starts to rise. He drops back on to the ground, eyes fixed on me as Aragorn sits down next to me.

Sam says, "Look at his neck. It's gone all raw from that thing pulling at him."

I sit stiffly and stare straight ahead while Aragorn gently pries the shirt from my clutching fingers. He moves the chain aside and touches my skin lightly, running his fingers up and around my neck. I try not to flinch, but even such a light touch as this makes my skin burn and the itching grow stronger.

Sitting back on his heels, Aragorn looks at me for a long minute with lips pressed tightly together. "How long has this been going on?"

"When did I leave the Shire?"

"Your neck wasn't like that in Rivendell."

"It's always pulled at me, but it didn't start to scrape until after we left Lorien. It itches so tonight."

The others gather around us and exclaim at the sight of my raw skin. I smile when Gimli growls, "Aragorn, what foulness is this? Can you not do something for him?"

"The foul arts of the Enemy are beyond my skill to heal. Perhaps I can soothe the itching a little."

Aragorn moves quickly to his pack and digs about in it. Coming back to me, he carries a little wooden box.

"Frodo, take off the chain. You don't need to wear it all the time."

I hiss, "No."

Aragorn starts at the fierceness in my voice.

"Surely it can rest safely in your pocket. You needn't suffer it around your neck since it chafes so much."

I take a deep breath before replying. "I worry when I don't wear it. It could fall out of my pocket too easily. At least I always know where it is this way."

"Perhaps. Well, I can't force you."

"What's in the box?"

"A salve from Lorien. It will lessen the itching if nothing else. Shall I put it on you, or will you do it yourself?"

"I'll do it. Thank you, Aragorn. I'm sorry I'm so much trouble."

Aragorn touches my cheek and hands me the box. "Never that."

I run my hands over the little box's smooth sides and trace the mallorn blossom incised on its rounded lid, carefully following its graceful curves with my finger. Opening the lid, the faint scent of honeysuckle rises to greet me. I close my eyes and sit still, tears starting at the unexpected reminder of home.

Dipping into the box, the salve is cool against my fingers. I rub my thumb against them and relish the silky texture. Scooping a little more into my hand, I spread the balm against my neck. A stinging like nettles makes me flinch at first. When the smarting subsides, I continue massaging the salve into my skin. Slowly, the itching disappears and my neck warms, aching muscles relaxing.

Closing the lid carefully, I put the box in my jacket pocket and curl up on the ground facing the fire, cloak and blanket drawn up tight to my chin. I look into the flames, and my mind finally clears with the easing of the itching that I thought would drive me mad.

* * *

It knows what I've decided; surely that's why it tormented me all day. You would think it would be happy knowing that I shall take the straight road to its home, yet it's not. It is very angry with me.

He is a good man. It's not his fault that the Ring is calling him; that is its nature. Does he know it's working on him?

The camp is silent. The only sounds I hear are the soft breathing of my sleeping companions and the occasional crack of the dying embers of the fire. Aragorn keeps watch a little apart from us.

The quiet snap of a twig draws my attention. I turn toward the sound and see Boromir standing in the shadow of the trees that surround our camp. He beckons to me with an outstretched hand.

I can't bear to tell him that I made my choice last night--that he made it for me. Will he see it in my face when I go to him?

My knees tremble when I stand up, clutching my cloak and blanket around me. I walk past Aragorn. He doesn't move though his eyes meet mine for a moment.

Boromir and I move without speaking through the trees. His hand rests on my shoulder, long fingers holding me lightly through too many layers of clothing. My neck is still warm from the salve, the Ring quiescent for the moment.

He sinks down under a spreading tree, dry leaves crackling beneath him, and pulls me with him on to his lap. I wrap my arms tightly around his neck and press my face to his shoulder, listening to his steady heart beat: make it last … make it go on … don't let the morning come.

He speaks, mouth pressed to my head. "Your neck, is it better now?"

"Yes, the salve stopped the itching."

"Good."

We sit huddled together, rocking back and forth a little. Finally, I shift and look up into his face. He smiles at me eagerly and shakes his head.

I ask, "What are you thinking?"

"I was remembering what she said to me in Lorien when I heard her voice in my head. She told me that there was still hope left though I could not see it at the time. Now that I know you will come with me, I see she was right."

My face grows hot with the lies I must tell, so I hide it against his throat. "Tell me again about this place you will take me."

"It is a small hunting lodge my father keeps, about a day's ride from the city. You'll see, it will be easy to stay hidden. We've not used it for a long while though my brother and I used to go there often. There's not been time in the last few years, but it is always kept ready for us."

"Will we have to go near the city to get there?"

"No, not close."

"I'm sorry I won't see your tower."

"You will eventually. I promise."

"Let's not talk about it any more tonight. There'll be time enough when we get to the falls and have to tell the others."

* * *

I will learn him tonight--will fix him in my heart with all my senses.

I stand up and begin to undress. He leans against the tree and watches me, a small smile playing across his features. The shadows cast by the tree soften the hard lines of this face that is never harsh to me. He sits forward when I slide off my last garment and am clothed only with the chain and its coiled Ring. I weigh the chain in my hand for a minute and then slip it off my neck. He watches me put it into my jacket pocket but says nothing. I stand before him completely naked for the first time. Will he still want me?

His voice is so quiet that I hear his words as a gruff sigh. "It's about time you took off that wretched thing. Come here, the night air is cold. Let me warm you."

"You have too many clothes on—not fair."

He takes off his cloak as he stands and wraps it about me. I sit on the ground enveloped in the warm fur and surrounded by its scent. There is sweat and earth and rain damp and wood smoke in it; resting underneath it all are the warm traces of his skin.

It's my turn to watch him while he undresses. How his size alarmed me when I first saw him at Rivendell! He strode about the place so arrogantly and yet so out of place. I thought him stupid when he argued in favor of using the Ring and against destroying it. When he started calling me "little one", it only deepened my mistrust.

He sheds his clothes quickly and shivers from the chill night air. For someone so powerfully built, he can move with a lithe grace. I thought him slow moving and stolid until that day in Hollin when he sparred with Merry and Pippin. There had been so little laughter on our journey from Rivendell that it shocked me to hear it when the three of them collapsed on the ground after Pippin tricked him into thinking he had hurt him. Truth to tell, it was only Boromir's laughter that shocked me—nothing can stop Merry and Pippin for long from finding something to make them laugh. The sound of his laughter warmed me that afternoon though it didn't last. By the time he came to sit with me while I kept watch, the warmth had faded and been replaced by my familiar suspicion.

I pull open his cloak when he kneels down naked before me. He hesitates a minute and moves away a little to pull my jacket close to us. My heart sinks.

He grins at me and ruffles my hair. "I saw you put that little box of salve in your pocket. I would not have it too far from my reach."

I smile and hold my arms out to him as he pulls me close. The dry leaves beneath us rustle as we roll over, our limbs entangled. His skin is cold against my lips, gooseflesh on his shoulders and arms. I will warm him with my mouth and my body—will stay alert so that I don't miss a single moan or shudder.

He strokes my hip with fingers that slide from my waist to the crease at the top of my thigh, and I am lost in the warmth that is kindled by his touch. Blood rises in my ears in a thrumming rhythm so the only sound that reaches me is his quickening breathing. We struggle at first—our mouths and hands clashing in our eagerness to touch everything, kiss everywhere.

Something shifts, and the struggle ends. Hands and mouths move together and miss nothing—his throat with its strong pulse beating under my lips, my belly twitching beneath his stroking tongue.

The scent of honeysuckle fills my nose, and the salve fills my body with a coolness that quickly warms from his searching fingers. It's so easy; finally, it's so easy when he comes inside me. He is high above me, and it's so easy and simple. I don't know how long we move together with him suspended high above me, joined only by that impossibly long shaft that fits so effortlessly now. I rear up on my elbows to catch his nipple in my mouth. His taste fills me as completely as the other thing that is stroking so insistently inside me. He tastes of dust and sweat and honeysuckle. I lick all that away and taste only his skin--keep his warm sweet skin in my mouth.

Sated with fixing his taste inside me, I drop back and wrap my arms around his back and my legs around his thrusting hips. He begins to shake when he feels my arms and legs about him. I watch his face with the eyes squeezed shut, mouth compressed to a tight line, brow creased in concentration. I want to keep watching him, want to watch him when he comes, but his shuddering moves into me and I can't keep apart from it any longer.

I hold tight while he fills me over and over, just as I imagined he would when I sat in the boat floating down Anduin and stifled my moans so the others wouldn't hear me. Those suppressed moans come now long and loud, merge with his cries. Oh, but I didn't know it would be like this, that I wouldn't know where he left off and I began. I twist beneath him, stretched so tight by him that it must hurt but doesn't. He is so high above me that the air is cool against my straining hardness. His own fullness grows; I don't know how it can grow any more but it does until he pushes hard into me, screams my name, and his seed finally comes.

He drops down on me, his belly rubbing against me, and that's all it takes for me to come, so sweet, so simple. My body quivers as he rolls us over and pulls me up against his chest.

"Are you all right? I was afraid when you started moaning but couldn't stop."

I smile lazily, but my eyelids are too heavy to open. "Don't I look all right?"

He chuckles and kisses me with my chin held firmly in his hand. "You look like the cat that got the cream."

I giggle. "Well, didn't I?"

His laughter is belly deep. Why haven't we laughed more together? I push the pang of regret away and swat his shoulder. "You're disturbing me. How can I relax with your belly shaking like that?"

"Now you're just asking for it."

"For what?"

"This."

He pushes me on my back, his fingers digging into my sides making me wriggle.

"No … no … stop!" I'm breathless from laughing and his fingers tickling me as I squirm against the ground, my legs kicking at him ineffectually.

"Do you yield?"

"No … never … oh … oh … yes … YES!"

"Say it."

"No … no ... oh … stop …"

"Then say it."

"I yield to you, son of Denethor."

"Impertinent hobbit."

"Rude man."

He pulls me hard to his chest, and we lie together while our laughter trails away. It's so easy and simple again as he kisses my neck and shoulder. When the sadness threatens, I will it away. Not tonight, there'll be time enough for that tomorrow. Tonight I learn him--fix him in me with all my senses until at last I can sleep in his arms.

Before sleep overwhelms me, I feel him reach for my jacket. He pulls out the chain and slips it over my neck. It is ice cold and hard but warms as his fingers stroke it gently.

He says softly, "I would not have you wear it, but …"

"It's all right. I need to know where it is."

"I know. Sleep now."

We both sleep warm under his cloak until Aragorn comes to find us in the gray light of dawn.

* * *

The wind screams through the sheer chasm, whirling our small boats past the Pillars of the Kings. Aragorn bends down and speaks into my ear. "My sires of old, Frodo--Isildur and Anarion. I have longed to look upon them, my kings."

His face is proud and strong with his hair flowing behind him as he guides our boat closer to Gondor, the home of his fathers. How he must have yearned for it through his lonely years of wandering. I know he has been there before, but always in secret, his identity hidden from all there. How much longer will it be until he receives what is rightfully his?

I look back and see the same proud look on Boromir's face. His hood is flung back, and he eagerly drives his boat forward, eyes fixed on the two guardians of stone. He is coming home, too, though not in any way that he ever expected. Our eyes meet for a long moment, and he smiles at me with a pure joy that I have not seen before.

* * *

It's over; we have arrived. We cannot go forward without choosing one side of the River or the other. That is, we cannot move until I tell the others what I decided the other night when I finally knew what I must do.

Gravel crunches under my feet as I step on to the shore of Parth Galen and look around at the bright lawn, worn statues of stone watching me from their shrouds of drooping foliage. There is a stillness in the air save for the voice of Rauros calling in the distance. Something is waiting for me.

It scratches at my neck again—it always will. I know that now. The whispering fills my head with taunts and promises until I can't hear anything else, can't think straight until I get away from the others. While they pull the boats up on to the shore and unload our packs, I slip away through the trees.

I wander aimlessly at first, seeking higher ground. The trees and shrubs close in, stray branches catching my cloak as I move faster, looking for a clearing or a path. I find a stair, old stone and dried leaves crumbling under my climbing feet. The voice of the falls is muffled now, my breathing harsh in my ears.

The fragments of a great statue rest before me, the head of some forgotten sleeping king pillowed on the ground. I hoist myself on to it and lie down on its broad nose, curling into a little ball with my knees touching my forehead. It is warm and dark with my hood drawn down over my face. I want to sleep. Perhaps it has all been a dream, and I will wake to find myself safe in my bed at Bag End, laughing a little as the long, bad dream dissolves in the clear morning light of the Shire. I shift a little to ease the ache in my shoulder and drift off in the silence of the woods.

* * *

"Frodo?"

I wake with a start. Boromir's hand is on my head, pulling back my hood. It wasn't a dream.

He strokes my hair and asks softly, "Are you all right? It's not safe for you to be alone here. We don't know who is about."

"I'm so tired--just wanted to rest here a little while."

"I know you're weary, but it's too dangerous here for you to be alone. Orcs patrol the eastern shore. At least they did many months ago; perhaps they come to this side now as well. Just hold on a little longer, and then you can rest safely—just a few more days now and we'll be there."

He stands close to me and holds me cradled in his arms, soothing my neck with his warm mouth. The chafing fades as the familiar glow spreads from the Ring. He didn't mean what he said the other night about using it; it was but a slip of the tongue that anyone could make. I was wrong to think ill of going with him, to doubt that all would turn out well if I trust him. He has done nothing but care for me all the way from Rivendell to Amon Hen.

His breath is soft against my ear. "It is but a rough lodge, not like my father's house in Minas Tirith. But it will seem a palace to us after so many weeks in the wild. At the least, the beds are soft and warm."

His hand trembles as he touches the silver links, the Ring sliding closer. It brushes his fingertips and he clasps it tight. The chain bites into my skin like a quick splash of cold water on a sleeping face. I pull away, and he releases it. Jumping down from the statue, I move away from him a few paces, keeping my eyes cast on the ground.

He says, "Come, Frodo. We must go back and tell the others where we are going."

I look up at him, and he sees. The tender look on his face fades forever as he looks into my eyes and knows.

"Why?"

"It is the only way. You know that, surely you know that by now."

"I only know that you will take it straight to Him if you follow the eastern shore."

We move through the trees, circling each other as he steps forward and I step back to keep a few feet between us.

"Why do you run from me? Do you think I will try and take it from you?"

"What you said the other night when you first told me of your father's lodge … what you said about your father knowing what to do with it."

"That was a mere slip. I am no thief." His voice cracks with pain.

"It's working on you, can't you see that? She said it would, that it would take each of the Fellowship one by one. You are but the first. I am sorry."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't you hear it whisper to you when you hold the chain in your hand, when you run your fingers over each link? You can't keep your hands from it."

He speaks in a low voice, struggling to keep emotion tamped down. "I am a man of my word. Do not twist your own thoughts and make them mine. If anyone has been untrue, it is you. You made me think you would come with me. Can you deny that?"

I shake my head. "No, I cannot. I'm sorry. You frightened me though I'm glad you did. It woke me from some dream I was living with you these past weeks."

He laughs harshly. "Ah. Well, that explains all. I thought you trusted me."

"I did. It is not your fault; its evil is working on you just as it is on me."

We stare at each other. He looks down and covers his face with his hand. When he looks up, he smiles at me with his mouth twisted in a harsh grimace. He is a stranger to me now.

"That was not very bright of you to go so far from the others, was it, little one? I don't think they will hear you now if you scream for help."

"We must go back. You are not yourself."

"And you are?"

With a cry of rage, he is after me. I run though I know he will catch up to me with a few long strides. My feet slip and slide on leaf mold and pine needles as I lose ground to him. He screams at me, alternating pleas to lend him the Ring with curses on my head for my trickery. Too soon, I fall and he catches me by the ankle. He flips me over on my back and I see his face as I had always feared I would, full of hatred and desire—desire for the Ring, not me. His weight crushes me as he presses me into the soft ground, his hands reaching for my neck. There is only one thing I can do.

* * *

Sam and I beach our boat on the eastern shore. We are far enough that the sounds of battle no longer reach us. Boromir's voice still echoes in my ears—I think it always will. He begged my forgiveness as I fled from him through the Ring mist.

I tried to get away, to go alone. I would not have anyone share the coming horror, but Sam was too quick for me. He knew what I would do, and I'm glad. It's selfish, but I'm glad he's here with me. Aragorn will look after the others. They will be all right even though I saw the orcs coming. At least, I think they were orcs though they didn't look like those we saw in Moria. They were large and strong, not daunted by the light of day. There were many of them, but I know they cannot withstand my friends—Aragorn's and Boromir's sword, Legolas' bow and knife, Gimli's axe, Merry's and Pippin's swords from the Barrow.

I help Sam change his clothes. He was soaked to the skin from his plunge in frigid Nen Hithoel. Fear tightened around my chest as I saw him sink under the water. I barely breathed until I felt him grasp my wrist and knew he still lived. We will continue as we began this journey, just the two of us.

Though I am tired and fearful, my mind is clear. It is as though I have wakened from some strange dream. The Ring is quiet now, although I know it is only biding its time and will begin to bite again when it chooses.

Does Boromir despise me? I saw hatred in his face but cannot believe it was anything but the power of the Ring overcoming him in its last gamble. He will recover now that he is parted from it and can no longer be tempted by it. If, by chance, I survive my task and see him again, I know I will see welcome not hatred in his face.

I don't look back across the lake as we climb the slope that will bring us to the Emyn Muil. Since orcs patrol this side, we move with all our hobbit quiet.

We climb until we reach an open space that overhangs the lake. I look ahead seeking our path while we rest a few minutes. When I move again, Sam stops me with a hand on my shoulder.

"Look back, Mr. Frodo. There, across the lake. What are they doing?"

Unwilling, I drag my eyes across the water and see Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli carrying a limp body. I know Gimli by his height, Legolas by his shining hair, and Aragorn by his build. Of Merry and Pippin there is no sight.

They lay the body in one of the boats, his Lorien cloak folded beneath his head to shelter him from the hard wood. Aragorn places his sword and horn on his lap and arranges his hands around the hilt. Getting into the other boat, they guide Boromir's funeral raft out into the middle of the lake and send it on its way.

From the corner of my eye, I see the three make their way back to Amon Hen, but I have no care for what they will do. My eyes lock on the frail gray boat that carries him away from me.

_"One by one, it will destroy them all,"_ she had said to me.

Gravel is sharp under my clutching hands and cuts into my knees as I watch him ride into the fume and mist of Rauros. The boat hangs over the edge for a brief second and then falls. He is gone. The silver trumpets will not call him home again in the morning light.

Sam says softly, "We have to go now. This place is too open, we could be seen. Come now."

This time it is Sam who pulls me up from the depths. I cling to his warm hands as I wait for my legs to stop trembling.

The air is still, the sky bright blue when we head up the hill toward the Emyn Muil. There is no sound but the laughter hissing in my head. I straighten my shoulders against the weight that pulls at my neck and turn to my friend.

"Sam, I'm glad you're here with me."

* * *

  
_From the Gate of Kings the North Wind rides, and past the roaring falls;_  
And clear and cold about the tower its loud horn calls.  
'What news from the North, O mighty wind, do you bring to me today?  
What news of Boromir the Bold? For he is long away.'  
'Beneath Amon Hen I heard his cry. There many foes he fought.  
His cloven shield, his broken sword, they to the water brought.  
His head so proud, his face so fair, his limbs they laid to rest;  
And Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, bore him upon its breast.'  
'O Boromir! The Tower of Guard shall ever northward gaze  
To Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, until the end of days.'  
(The Two Towers, "The Passing of Boromir")  


* * *


End file.
